TurkeyGreece Ficlets
by April Ballad
Summary: A collection of Turkey/Greece ficlets. Update #5: 9 stories added! Possible the last update
1. 1: Olympia

INTRODUCTION:

According to the now-defunct website Ficlets, a ficlet is under 1, 024 words.

Stories will vary in rating and genre, but will mostly be T/T+ and humor, hurt/comfort or slice-of-life. They'll all be unrelated, so you can choose which ones you'd like to read or skip.

**#1: Olympia**

_Summary: Turkey once loved Olympia, but we all move on, and he wants Greece to know that he isn't a substitute for his mother._

_Genre: A little hurt/comfort, slice-of-life_

_Rating: T_

_Warnings: Implied sexual situations_

_Word Count: 454_

"I loved your mom."

Greece has known this for a while.

But they are still lying among rumpled sheets and wet stains and half-empty lube bottles, so he thinks that this is probably the second worst time possible for Turkey to make such a confession.

Greece wants to say something profound here, but he's not sure how he's supposed to react. The replies "I figured," "Well, too bad," and "That's nice" cross his mind, and he wants to say them all, but in a much more eloquent way.

Instead, he just says lamely: "Me too."

Turkey whips around from his observation of the ceiling to look at Greece. He's almost positive the Greek doesn't mean it the same way he meant it. At least, Turkey hopes so.

"No," Turkey says slowly, "I mean…I was _in love_ with her."

"Oh." A pause. "That's nice."

Turkey sees the slight crease in Greece's forehead, the barely-perceptible change in his eyes. He can tell Greece is suppressing the urge to bite his lip, or worse, to pout. It's all very endearing, in a dear-Allah-this-is-giving-me-diabetes-and-I-just-wanna-punch-someone kind of way.

"I'm not anymore," He confesses, trying to reassure the Greek.

"I hope not. She's dead."

"That's not what I meant." Turkey cuffs Greece lightly on the side of his curly head. He wants to have one of those deep, philosophical, what's-the-meaning-of-life conversations that the Greek is so fond of, but he doesn't seem to be doing a good job of it. "I meant, I moved on. We all do. That's life."

Greece keeps staring at the ceiling, and he looks very uncomfortable, like he doesn't know where Turkey wants to go with this conversation. It makes Turkey want to do stupid things, like pet his hair and kiss his nose and tell him that everything's going to be okay.

"Hey," he says, and he tilts Greece's chin with a gentle finger so that the younger man will look at him. "I just wanted ya to know. Y'know…so you don't think I still am. I, uh, I don't think of you as her."

Turkey lies down again on his back and stares at the ceiling with Greece. He just lies there for a time wondering if he's screwed everything up, if he's ruined this tentative peace that they've finally achieved in an effort to do just the opposite of that. It's a bad feeling. Maybe he's getting too attached to Greece after all. Maybe it's better to back off a little, before it gets too serious.

Greece threads their fingers together and squeezes his hand. He looks at Turkey and smiles.

And Turkey thinks that maybe, it's better to just do what he always does, and jump in with both feet first.

**/end**


	2. 2: Why Turkey Hates Cats

**#2 The Multitudinous, Ubiquitously Legitimate, and Not Inconsequential Reasons Why Turkey Hates Cats**

_Summary: Turkey hates cats. This is why._

_Genre: Humor_

_Rating: T_

_Warnings: Implied sexual situations, explicit language_

_Word Count: 758_

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><p><span>Reason #4: They judge you with their beady little eyes<span>

So they'd fought. So what. They did it all the time. Turkey was aware that this wasn't the way a normal, healthy relationship was supposed to be, but when they'd first gotten into this thing, he had already known it'd be anything but normal and healthy.

Now he was at Egypt's home, cooling off. No, he hadn't run away. Turkey was brave, strong and noble, and he'd never run away like a wuss. He'd merely decided to be the bigger of the two and leave before they went back to using fists and teeth. And not in the pleasurable way either.

So. It was established: Turkey did not run away.

The fatass cat currently glaring at him seemed to disagree. It lounged on a sofa across from him, and hadn't stopped staring at him in an _extremely_ disapproving way since he'd gotten there.

"What are ya lookin' at?" Turkey snapped.

The cat glared.

"I didn't run away. And it wasn't my fault in the first place, anyway."

The cat glared.

"It wasn't! It was totally his fault. Can you believe he wants to tell people about us? Fucking stupid idea."

The cat glared.

"Shuddup! I wasn't being unreasonable. I'm not ashamed of him or anything, I just don't want the fuss."

Glare.

"Greece is a big boy, he'll suck it up."

Glare.

"Shit. You really think he's upset?"

Glare.

"Goddammit." Turkey got up. He was going to go buy Greece some flowers and apologize.

Stupid cat.

Reason #12: They have no tact

Turkey cracked open an eye and froze.

He wasn't in his bed. Greece was lying asleep next to him, curled around his side. Shit.

ShitshitshitshitSHIT.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep, and now it was morning and he was naked and anyone could burst through the bedroom door at any goddamn moment!

Turkey carefully extricated himself from Greece and tiptoed to the door. None of his clothes was in the room; they'd all been tossed haphazardly around the house last night. He turned the doorknob and slipped out. The hallway was empty. All he had to do was cross the living room, past the kitchen, and he'd be free. He'd come back for his clothes later; no one would recognize him from them anyway.

Then he heard it. Voices. In the kitchen. He moved stealthily into the living room, pressing himself to the wall next to the open kitchen door. Egypt was chatting with Hungary inside. He would have to race across the open doorway without their noticing. Naked. No problem.

He glided silently past. No one noticed. Hell yeah, he's good!

Turkey snuck towards the backdoor. He was so close. He was gonna make it!

"Meow!"

Turkey froze.

"Meow!"

A cat bounded up to him, rubbing itself against his leg. He tried kicking it, but it skipped out of the way and meowed again. Loudly.

"What's wrong, kit— _Sadiq_!"

Turkey turned around to see Egypt blushing furiously and Hungary squealing. She'd somehow pulled a camera out of thin air.

The cat purred. Stupid cat.

Reason #27: They shed everywhere

Turkey woke up in Greece's bed. This was becoming a routine. Greece was still asleep, which meant it was time to leave. It wasn't that they were still a secret, but if he waited for Greece to wake up, the man would probably want him to stay over and—God forbid—_talk_. He got up quietly and started picking up his clothes, dressing as he went along. Shirt, boxers, pants, socks. Now to find his jacket.

He walked into the living room and saw them.

Cats. A dozen of them, all lying on top of his coat on the floor. His eye twitched.

"Get off'er there!" He kicked at them, and the cats meowed and hissed as they jumped out of the way. They glared at him disapprovingly, seemed to "hmph" in contempt and proudly strolled away.

Turkey picked up the remnants of his poor jacket. It wasn't scratched up, but it was covered in a thick layer of fur. Gross. Now what should he do?

"Sadiq?" A bleary-eyed Greece walked into the room, cuddling a cat. He found Sadiq pouting morosely at his fur-covered jacket and couldn't help but chuckle. Turkey glared at him. The cat glared back.

"I have some tape. You can use that to get it off." Greece started walking away, then: "Oh, and I'll put on some coffee. You like eggs?"

Looked like Turkey was staying over after all. Stupid cats.

**/end**


	3. 3: Independence

**#3: Independence**

_Summary: What Heracles wants and what Greece needs are very different things. Greece's last battle for independence._

_Genre: Angst, historical_

_Rating:__T_

_Warnings: Violence, implied sexual situations, angst. Yeah. No happy ending here._

_Word Count: 717_

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><p>He is awake.<p>

He was never asleep. He feels the other man's arms curled possessively around him, muscular and dark and so, so scarred. The man's breathing is shallow, almost pained. It has been like this for decades now, and Greece is used to it, but it still hurts him somehow to see the man like this.

The night is silent and still, and birds have yet to begin their songs. It is time for him to leave. It has to be now, because when the Ottoman Empire is awake, he will never let him go. When the Ottoman Empire is awake, he will look at Greece with those eyes so full of empty pride and past glory, but there will be a strain and a pleading underneath. It will not be the pride, but the sadness, that will keep Greece there.

He stands, as silent as the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight. He wants to touch the Ottoman Empire one last time—because it will be the last time, he knows—but can't risk waking him from his feverish dreams. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and carries with him the soreness in his body as the only token to remember them by. Then he is gone, and the Ottoman Empire is still sleeping, and when he wakes, there will be no one there to see the betrayal and hurt in his eyes.

XXX-XXX-XXX-XXX

"_Stand strong, men!"_

Officer Ypsilanti is a commanding presence on the battlefield. In minutes, the Ottoman forces will be upon them—7,000, if their intelligence has not failed—and they will clash, with 2,000 men who have never known military discipline, 2,000 men who have no training but the strength in their hearts and the love of their country and God to guide them. Greece is so full of pride and love and fear for them that he wants to cry. But he is the only symbol they have, an entity weightier than a thousand generations, and he cannot show weakness.

They hear the hooves beating before they see the dust in the distance, and they steel themselves for death or victory. Within seconds, a hail of gunfire is showering them, and they charge forward with cries that deafen the Heavens, with nothing but swords and feet and hope.

XXX-XXX-XXX-XXX

"_Amen."_

Greece crosses himself and stands. It's over. It's really, really over.

They've won.

The bodies of hundreds of Ottoman soldiers litter the blood-soaked ground, and his men—his undisciplined, untested, unruly men—are in turns cheering their victory and mourning their dead.

Officer Ypsilanti is beaming his pride, and Greece has almost forgotten why his heart is still so heavy, when he sees him. He is the last man still there, the last man to keep looking back when the rest of the defeated army is already in retreat. His stance is proud and haughty, looking down at them from his majestic mount, but his eyes tell another story.

They find each other, across that one battlefield that is soaked through with more than just blood, but with all the pain and death and sorrow of four hundred years. They find each other, only through their eyes. The Ottoman Empire has his mask on, and they are separated by the distance of centuries, but even still, Greece thinks he can see hurt etched below the contempt on his face. Then the man turns—is gone—and Greece has won, but it doesn't feel completely like victory.

A new wave of cheers rises behind him, and he turns to find Officer Ypsilanti next to him, handing him the Greek banner with a reverence that rivals a man holding the Holy Grail. Greece takes the banner from him, a simple pattern of a blue cross on a white background. Not a single man breathes. He raises the banner with all the pride that is Greece, and the world around him explodes in jubilee.

For this one instant, he cannot be selfish. For this one instant, he is no one but Greece, and all of him is celebrating. For this one instant in the grand scheme of God's machinations, not one inch of him is Heracles. There is only the victory of a country, and that matters more than one man's pain.

**/end**


	4. 4: Parenting

**#4: Parenting**

_Summary: Little Greece is sick, and the Ottoman Empire is a warrior, not a parent, dammit._

_Genre: H/C, historical, pre-slash_

_Rating: T to be safe_

_Warnings: A little language_

_Word Count: 976_

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><p>"Achoo!"<p>

Greece sniffles piteously as he tugs the covers over his chin. Egypt wrings out a fresh towel and places it over Greece's burning forehead. The child whimpers, his breaths hitching as if he is holding back sobs. It is this scene that the Ottoman Empire walks into as he returns from the battlefield, and even from a distance, he can tell that the child looks as if he is on his deathbed.

"Wha's wrong with 'im?" He wipes the sweat and caked blood off his face with a loose sleeve, throwing off his armor haphazardly as he approaches. Egypt wrinkles his nose in distaste; the Ottoman Empire still reeks of the blood of his foes, his bloody scimitar glinting dangerously against his waist.

"He has a high fever." Egypt wonders whether he should continue, and risk the Ottoman's rage. Then Greece gives a low cry, hiccupping and coughing at once. Egypt grits his teeth and continues, "Most likely a result of the heavy tax burden and tribute of children that you have started demanding." The accusation is a miscalculation, Egypt realizes immediately. The Ottoman Empire is always most aggressive when he returns from battle. For a moment he looks as if he is about to punch Egypt, and the younger man flinches in apprehension. Then the Ottoman grabs his sleeve, and shoves him to the door.

"Get the hell out. I'll take care of 'im." Egypt almost laughs bitterly. Instead, he bows his head and leaves the child to his fate.

The boy looks terrible. His skin is sweat-soaked and clings to his bones. He has heavy bags under his eyes, and his cheeks are flushed with heat. Tears gather on his eyelashes, and his breaths sound more labored with every passing moment.

The Ottoman Empire is suddenly seized with something uncomfortably close to fear. He has no idea what to do. He wonders if he should be sitting on the bed, if he should pet the child, maybe sing him something, or feed him soup. He remembers something about boiling water when a child is sick—or is that when a child is born? Dammit. He has no clue.

"Mm..Mom..mommy…" The boy mumbles miserably, his small hands reaching out in search of his mother. The Ottoman Empire almost has a panic attack at the guilt that suddenly seizes him.

"No, brat, it's me. Yer mom's dead, remember?" He winces at his own harsh tone, but doesn't know how to do anything but continue. "Yer just sick, you'll be fine soon. Quit whining."

The child doesn't respond with his usual vehemence, no trickle of defiance left in his frail body. He merely moans in pain, and returns to his quiet sobs.

The Ottoman berates himself. Obviously he's no parent. He knows this. Greece knows this. Egypt and Hungary and everyone know this. Greece hates him for it, hates him for taking away a mother and not being a father in turn. He remembers the one time that Greece had ventured to call him 'daddy,' and he had been so shocked he'd backhanded the child across the face.

And that's the problem, because he doesn't know how to react. He wants the brat to like him, of course. His house would be a lot more peaceful if the brat liked him. But he doesn't know how to do it. He can't be what Greece needs, can't sooth his nightmares, can't sing him lullabies, can't smile at him and pet him, play with him and teach him. The Ottoman Empire can't be a parent, never had one to show him how, and can't react with anything but violence.

Greece's quiet sobs become more insistent, and his little body shakes alarmingly. He's mumbling in Greek now, and at any other time, the Ottoman Empire would've slapped him for it. In sob-choked spurts, he cries for comfort in his mother's tongue, and the Ottoman catches random phrases from time to time. "_It hurts, hurts, hurts…"_ He calls for his mother, for God and Jesus and angels, but none of them come to rescue him.

The Ottoman Empire realizes that his fists are clenched so tight that his fingernails are digging into his battle-wounds. He wants to take the pain away, to channel it onto himself, because he's a warrior and he can take pain.

"So..sorr.." He stutters, then, instead of doing what any parent would do, he turns on his heel and leaves the child to suffer alone.

-Present Day-

"Achoo!"

Greece wipes his leaky nose on the covers, and a small whimper escapes him despite his best efforts to stay quiet. The sounds of pots and pans banging around in the kitchen reach him, along with a litany of foreign curses. Greece pulls the covers over his head and wills his unwelcome guest to go away.

"I made ya soup." Greece peeks through the covers and sees a bowl of some most-likely-poisonous liquid sloshing around. He moans piteously. "It looks terrible. Go away." His guest stubbornly doesn't go away. Instead, he sits by Greece long after the sick man has fallen asleep, watching every tremor and wishing he could take the pain away.

When Greece tosses his blanket aside in his troubled sleep, Turkey places it over him again. When Greece wakes himself with his coughs, Turkey presses a glass of water to his lips. When Greece reaches out for comfort, Turkey takes the fevered hand and squeezes it in his own.

He waits with Greece until well past sunrise, waits with him until the latest bout of tremors and fever from his economic collapse passes. Greece doesn't know why the Turk does it, and Turkey doesn't enlighten him. "You probably…just like seeing me suffer," Greece had said to him a few days ago, and Turkey had not corrected him.

Because he's a warrior, and warriors never say they're sorry.

**/end**


	5. 5: The Prince's Dancer

**A/N: I've stopped writing fanfiction these days, but after digging through my old stuff, I found a crap ton of these ficlets that I'd written and never posted. So I'm gonna post all of them now :)**

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><p><strong>#5: The Prince's Dancer<strong>

_Summary: Prince Sadiq is mesmerized by a beautiful Greek dancer, and sets out to make the boy his own_

_Genre: Historical AU, drama & romance_

_Rating: T_

_Warnings: Implied sexual situations, mentions of alcohol and religion_

_Word Count: 1,004_

* * *

><p>Prince Sadiq maneuvered easily between the throngs of partygoers. A simple, white mask covered his eyes and shrouded his identity, just like all the other men around him. The Ottomans had adopted the tradition of masked parties from the Europeans. Sadiq found the practice delightful, since it allowed him to act as outrageously as he pleased without fear of reprimand from the Queen Mother.<p>

Tonight's festivities were proving to be quite thrilling; forbidden alcohol flowed without trepidation, men who purported themselves good Muslims partaking of the liquid fire, hidden from their shame by the magic of anonymity. Sadiq swiped a cup from a nearby slave and gulped it down in one swallow. It burned, but he hardly noticed through the haze of a dozen previous cups.

Music blared from all directions, a chaotic symphony of lutes, violins, drums, and other instruments that the Prince hardly recognized in his half-intoxicated state. The rhythm played nothing like the soothing music his elders so enjoyed, beating a staccato of noise through his eardrums. Loud conversations, laughter and drunken singing mixed in the air to create a cacophony that drowned out all whispers of shame or Godliness. No one would speak of sin or fear of God tonight; tonight, they would simply enjoy themselves, as rich men were wont to do.

A loud round of cheers broke through the noise. The masked crowd gathered in a circle, throwing hoots and whistles at the entertainment. Sadiq shoved men aside as he forced his way to the front. A band of dancers had just entered the room. Young, pale-skinned and the epitome of youthful beauty, they swirled and twisted their bodies in a hypnotic rhythm as the music accompanied their fevered steps.

Their colorful, effeminate clothing proclaimed them koceks: young, male slave dancers. As non-Muslims, they had no shame, and men paid a pretty penny for their services, both on and off the dance floor. Sadiq leered at their effeminate bodies, wondering if he should pay for one to keep him company tonight. His eyes scanned the boys, before landing on one in particular.

He was dancing a distance from Sadiq, but he possessed a grace that made him stand out amid the clash of colors. His skin was a shade darker than the others—Greek, probably—and his face was unusually handsome. He gyrated his body like all the others, but there was something different about him—an aura of defiance seemed to thrum through his every move, the masculine edges of his body and drawn lines on his face unmistakable for a meek female. His masculinity should've been a turn-off, but Sadiq found himself inexplicably drawn to the youth.

Sadiq stood mesmerized as he watched the boy dance. He didn't realize when the dance was over, didn't notice the music stopping and the cheers around him, until he was rudely shoved out of the way by a throng of men rushing up to bid for the dancers' company that night. Sadiq shook his pounding head, cursing the alcohol and his weakness for it, before joining them as he made his way to the dancer he had been staring at.

When he finally pushed and kicked his way through, the youth had his chin held high and a scowl on his face, as an overweight older man yanked forcefully on his arm. The dancer growled in lightly-accented Turkish, "I said, no. I don't go with scum."

The fat man hissed at the boy in Ottoman Turkish, trumpeting his noble status, before pulling his hand back to deliver a blow. Sadiq rushed up to the scene and caught the man's arm just as the boy flinched in apprehension. He twisted the man's arm ruthlessly, unreasonably angered at the display. "Get lost. He's mine tonight."

"Curse your ancestors, foolish child!" The old man spat at Sadiq, "Koceks need an experienced hand that you obviously do not possess. And besides, I paid the most for him!"

Sadiq dug into his pocket and retrieved a small bag of coins. Upending it over the dancer's hands, he revealed a dozen Sultani gold coins. The crowd that had gathered to watch the dispute gasped at the generous payment. With a smug smirk at the flabbergasted fat man, who was slowly turning purple with rage, Sadiq grabbed the dancer's hand and led him away from the party.

Outside, in the quiet of the courtyard, Sadiq halted to examine his prize. The dancer was hardly a boy anymore, sleek muscles and intelligent eyes as telltale signs of his maturity. In a year or two, he would no longer qualify as a kocek, and would have to resort to manual labor to earn a living. For now though, Sadiq thought that he was beautiful, a fine mix of femininity and masculinity, of grace and fire.

Sadiq threaded his fingers through the fine, brown strands. The youth's hair was a mass of curls, soft to the touch. When Sadiq cupped his cheek in one palm, the boy turned into the touch, a move endearingly reminiscent of a small kitten. When Sadiq chuckled, the boy's eyes flew open and he pulled back slightly, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

"Thank you," He whispered in that oddly lilted Turkish, "I recognized that man. He's a brute. I'd die before going with him again."

Sadiq bit down on the jolt of jealously that flared to life at the boy's mention of '_again.'_ So the fat man had taken this gem before. He resolved to find out his identity and make his life hell.

"Although," The boy continued, "I have no idea who you are. For all I know, you could be even worse."

"Let me show you," Sadiq whispered, his hands landing on the boy's hips and pulling their bodies together. He brushed a chaste kiss against those lush lips, fire stoking in his body as the boy gasped in eager response.

It didn't matter how many men the youth had been with before. For tonight, he would belong to Sadiq alone.

**/end (?)**


	6. 6: Talk Dirty to Me

**#6: Talk Dirty to Me**

_Summary: Turkey wants Greece to talk dirty to him, but Greece is hesitant._

_Genre: Humor, slice-of-life_

_Rating:__T_

_Warnings: Implied sexual situationsa bit of language_

_Word Count: 100_

* * *

><p>They were arguing. Again. And it was about the stupidest thing possible.<p>

"I don't want to do that." Greece crossed his arms and fumed.

"Why not? It'll be hot!"

"Because…because…" Because no matter how much Turkey wanted it, Greece just couldn't talk dirty in bed. He was horrible at it. He'd end up saying something like 'Oh yeah, baby, love your mouth there, you talk to diplomats about market liberalization with that mouth?'

"Just try it once! Here, I'm begging, ya happy?"

Greece huffed. "God, you're such a pain in the ass."

Turkey leered. "Oh yeah, now you've got it."

**/end**


	7. 7: Russian Roulette

Russian roulette: "A potentially lethal game of chance in which participants place a single round in a revolver, spin the cylinder, place the muzzle against their head and pull the trigger."

* * *

><p><strong>#7: Russian Roulette<strong>

_Summary: AU; it's a slow day for the Turkish mafia, so Adnan proposes they play a dangerous game._

_Genre: AU; slight psychological mindfuck, a bit of a dark and dangerous atmosphere? Not a dark!fic though, kinda ends humorously._

_Rating: T+_

_Warnings: Explicit language, implied sexual situations, violence_

_Word Count: 978_

* * *

><p>The den is quiet now. Most of the smugglers and gangsters who had come to party have all gone home, and Heracles finds himself alone in his mansion with only his rival-cum-business-partner to keep him company. It's a familiar scene, one both their bodies remember, and Heracles wonders whether the night carries further promise.<p>

"Let's play a game, Karpusi."

The Turk's fingers are running like spiders across the nape of his neck. The man bends down and drapes his arms on the back of Heracles' leather couch. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette, and puffs the smoke out against Heracles' cheek. Heracles resists the urge to retch.

"I always hated…you smoking." Adnan laughs at this, and forces the cancer-stick between the younger man's lips. Heracles takes a hesitant inhale—and coughs disgustedly at the taste. He spits onto the floor, then wipes his mouth against the sleeve of his D&G suit. It's bad form to ruin a two-grand tux, but money is flowing and he can just buy another tomorrow.

"Let's play a game." Adnan leans in, and licks a stripe across Heracles' cheek. "Winner tops."

Heracles is instantly interested. Every one of their previous tumbles in bed have been fierce power struggles that ended with more battle scars than hickeys. If he could get the Turk's legs around his waist just by winning a game…

"What kind of game?"

"Russian Roulette." Adnan's voice is husky, cradling the words the way he does when he whispers the dirtiest things into Heracles' ears in the dark. Heracles has only a moment of shock, before he hears the click of a gun's safety catch being pulled. Then he feels the cold steel against his temple.

"Fuck you." Heracles bats the barrel away. Adnan had always been twisted, but this was going too damn far.

"C'mon, kitten. Winner tops."

"Yeah. Winner tops a corpse."

Adnan's feral grin is hungry and malevolent. "Scared, Greek?" And Heracles could never resist his taunts.

Adnan puts the muzzle against his own temple, and, leering down at Heracles, pulls the trigger. A click. Nothing more. "Your turn."

It's psychological warfare, and Heracles has never backed down where Adnan is concerned. They'll be the death of each other someday, he knows, but it'd always been one hell of a joyride.

Heracles takes the gun from him, places it against his own temple, squeezes his eyes tight, and pulls the trigger. It clicks. Nothing more.

Heracles is shocked to find that his heart is pounding painfully against his ribs. He keeps his eyes closed, breathing hard, and prays to God that, wherever the ride stops, it won't stop here. He hears Adnan spinning the cylinder, before clicking it back into place, and opens his eyes in time to see the Turk placing the muzzle against his own temple once more.

"What say you we up the ante?"

Heracles swallows painfully, his nerves nearly shot, though he'd never admit it to this man. "How?" He croaks.

"Two shots each, instead of one." Heracles nods numbly, then logic assails him and he complains, "You went first last time. It's my turn to be first." Adnan doesn't argue. He jumps over the back of the couch so that he's sitting next to Heracles, and hands him the revolver.

The pounding of his heart is deafening and he swears his eardrums are about to burst. His mouth is desperately dry. He wonders why he's even doing this. _He pulls the trigger_.

Click.

He lets out a shuddering breath and hears Adnan's chuckle. His fingers yearn to reach out to the other man for support, but he won't let himself feel weakness now. _He pulls the trigger_.

Click.

Adnan looks both amused and disappointed when Heracles doesn't collapse into a weepy puddle. Heracles' hand is still shaking when he hands the gun back to the Turk.

"The night ain't young, Karpusi. Let's end this now. There's 4 rounds left. One of us pulls 3 more times. If whoever does it ain't a bloody carcass by the time it's over, he wins."

Heracles is hesitant. He's stupid enough to be talked into this game, but he's not _that_ stupid. "That's practically suicide. I'm not doing it."

"And if I do?"

"…Then you win."

Adnan smirks viciously. "You got yerself a deal, kitten." With no regard for his own life, Adnan pushes the barrel against his temple and counts out loud. "_One_."

Click.

"_Two_."

Click.

God must be protecting him, Heracles figures, but that last pull has a 50/50 chance now, and he's suddenly overwhelmed with fear for the Turk's life. "Thre—"

"Stop it!" Heracles shoves the man's hand away from his own head viciously. "You psychotic bastard!" It's defeat, Heracles knows, but somehow, this man's life seems more important than winning.

Adnan smirks again, and leans in to kiss him. "My bed or yours?"

XXX-XXX-XXX-XXX

It's noon when Heracles struggles out of bed, woozy and sleepy and sore in all the familiar places. Adnan sits next to him, looking down at him with a grin. Heracles wants desperately to punch the reckless man in the face.

"You're psycho. Last night…you could've died. We both…"

"We didn't."

"We could've," Heracles asserts, because after a long night of losses, he needs some sort of victory right now to ease his battered pride.

"No, we wouldn't've. And plus…" Adnan strokes a hand through Heracles' messy curls. "I just got proof."

"What proof?"

"That you looove me, Heracles Karpusi." The Turk mimics a swoon, snickering wildly, and Heracles again fantasizes about punching him right in the face.

"Bastard. What makes you so sure we wouldn't've died?"

Adnan reaches for his discarded belt, and pulls out the revolver from its holster. He pops the cylinder open. _It's empty_. There's not a single round in it.

"…you cheating bastard."

And Heracles punches him right in his stupid face.

**/end**

Note: I'm not an expert on guns, so there may be inaccuracies in this fic. As far I know, most revolvers don't have an external safety catch. I dunno why Sadiq's had one. The lesson here is to play carefully with guns, kids


	8. 8: PostIt Notes

**#8 Post-It Notes**

_Summary: Sadiq and Heracles are roommates. Sadiq is a shameless flirt, and Heracles can't stand Sadiq, so he only communicates via post-it notes on the fridge. _

_Genre: College AU, humor, drama & romance_

_Rating: T+_

_Warnings: Implied sexual situations, explicit language, references to marijuana_

_Word Count: 1,166 (a bit long, sorry!)_

* * *

><p>Heracles didn't know what he was thinking when he'd agreed to room with that Turkish jerk. Except, of course, he'd started the search for apartments late and at the time, it was either the Turk or a cardboard box on the street corner (and plus, the man was really handsome, and Heracles had a weakness for handsome men.)<p>

Now he cursed his stupid gay libido, because Sadiq was the quintessential roommate from the fiery pits of hell where pedophiles and puppy-kickers burn. He smoked and drank, had constant parties, boomed the most terrible music known to mankind and a few breeds of monkeys, left used condoms on the couch, ate Heracles' food, set fire to random shit, snored like a bitch, AND wouldn't stop hitting on him shamelessly.

Two months into their beautiful relationship and Heracles was ready to either embrace the fabulous life of a hobo or stab the man in his sleep. But, because he had the empathy God bequeathed to most human beings (unlike certain Turkish psychos,) and because he was too fond of his balls to let them freeze off in the winter, he did neither. He resorted to returning home as little as possible, stocking up on Febreze, and limiting their conversations to post-it notes stuck on the fridge.

Heracles came home for the first time that week (thank God for good friends and sofas in the student lounge.) Surprisingly, everything was quiet. He had steeled himself to find 100 drunken partiers crammed like sardines, strangers humping on his bed, or Sadiq banging some bimbo on the couch. He glanced at the fridge and re-read his last note:

_Sadiq: Could you __PLEASE__ get rid of that pile festering in the living room corner? It looks like a possum crawled up someone's ass, vomited, died, and rats humped on its remains. I'm afraid to touch it. Please get rid of it. Thanks._

Sadiq had replied: _ur such a joker, kitten. I covered it up, is that better? BTW: d'u know were my lucky purple sock went? I swear som bich stole it while I was stoned. Anyway, wanna go out somtime?_

Heracles opened the fridge and wasn't surprised that someone had eaten all his food. There were only empty beer cans and unidentifiable blobs of various colors left. He went into the living room. Sadiq had covered the abomination with one of Heracles' shirts and now there were little mushrooms growing on it. He stomped back into the kitchen.

_Sadiq: Stop eating my food and touching my clothes. You're pissing me off. Thanks._

He went into his room, only to find Sadiq snoring away in his bed. He growled and went back to the kitchen to add: _And stop sleeping in my bed_! Then he slammed the apartment door and left.

Next time he was home, he saw Sadiq had replied: _sorry, sweetness, wont happen again, didnt no shirt was urs. I bought food u can eat it to. also, ur never round and I miss ya. ur bed smells as irresistable as u ;) BTW: u never replid bout the date_

Heracles looked in the fridge and saw that Sadiq's idea of food was a carton of beer, some chocolate, a half-eaten hotdog and a jar of pickles. He closed the door again with a sigh and wrote: _I'll pass on the food, and the date, sorry. Please stop teasing me. Thanks._

A few days later, Sadiq had replied: _Not teasing, jus flirting cuz ur cute. How come no date? not ur type? ur totaly my type. I'll play nice w/ u ;)_

Problem was that tall, dark and handsome _was_ his type, but Heracles wasn't going to be dating someone as selfish as Sadiq. He was sorely tempted to write out a detailed list of "how come no date," but that would've taken hours, so he just wrote: _I don't date smokers or stoners. Sorry._

Sadiq's reply the following week surprised him. It said: _no prob, not adicted or anything. I'll quit if u ask._

Heracles was pleased to note that the ashtray in the living room was empty, there weren't any mysterious weeds lying around, and none of his papers had been set on fire when Sadiq used them as impromptu ashtrays. Still. That was just the tip of the iceberg, so he wrote: _I only do exclusive, and I don't do casual sex. Sorry._

The next time he came home, Sadiq had written: _I do exclusive to! really, ur totaly worth it ;)_

Heracles blushed and wondered if Sadiq was serious. Then he wondered if the man knew any smiley-faces besides ";)_"_, and if ";)" was supposed to be a wink or a leer. He hesitated, then wrote: _Maybe. But I'm not the partying type._

He didn't want to admit that he was actually looking forward to Sadiq's response.

Sadiq's next response surprised him even more:

_that's what I like about u, kitten, ur not a dumb ho. I'll ease up on the partying to if it bothers u. BTW: I got rid of that pile. turns out it was pizza and dog shit (I hope it was dog). so? yes? _

Heracles checked the living room; the pile really was gone, and the entire place looked a little less like a radioactive disaster as well. He felt flattered that Sadiq had gone to the trouble, and wondered if he should accept his offer after all.

Just then, the apartment door opened and he turned to see Sadiq. The Turk looked surprised, before breaking into a huge grin.

"Hey, Kitten! Just who I wanted to see!"

"Um…hi," Heracles replied lamely.

"Listen, I was thinking, I'm sorry bout all the shit over the past semester. I'm a pain in the ass to live with, I know, and you've got the patience of a frickin saint." Sadiq looked embarrassed. "So, like, I have this friend. He kicked his roommate out cause the guy was a slob, and he's looking for another one. And, uh, I kind of thought of you."

Heracles was shocked Sadiq was actually being considerate. Sadiq must've mistaken his silence for uncertainty, because he quickly added: "He's real clean, I swear. And I mean, I love having you around, it's just, you're _never_ around, and I thought it was cause you were out partying all the time, but then you said you ain't a partier, so I figured I was being a selfish bastard. I'm actually kinda surprised ya didn't stab me in my sleep."

"…I thought about it," Heracles confessed. Instead of looking angry or hurt, Sadiq just laughed, and Heracles found he liked the sound of it. "And that's…really thoughtful of you, thank you. And, uh, about the date…sure, sounds good."

"Fuck yeah!" Sadiq beamed, and he looked as handsome as Heracles had remembered the first time they'd met. "I swear, I'm a hell of a lot easier to get along with when yer not living with me."

Heracles smiled shyly. "Yeah…. I think so too."

**/end**


	9. 9: Our Father

**#9 Our Father**

_Summary: Greece is praying, and, to his surprise, Turkey joins him. _

_Genre: Slice-of-life, a little wistful?_

_Rating: K+_

_Warnings: Religious themes (nothing offensive though)_

_Word Count: 373_

* * *

><p>He hears the creak of the wooden doors opening behind him, but he doesn't open his eyes and he doesn't turn around. It is early on a Monday morning, so he hadn't expected company. Still, it is a holy place, and all are welcome. He continues praying.<p>

There are footsteps approaching, the clack of expensive leather shoes against ancient marble. The person stops just behind him, and sits down in the front row of the pews. Whoever it is sits very still, and Greece feels as if he is being watched.

He finishes his prayer prematurely and crosses himself, then turns around to see Turkey watching him. Turkey's face is solemn, and his eyes intent, so unlike his usual outgoing behavior that it startles Greece.

"Hi," Greece ventures. He gets up from the altar to sit down next to the other man.

"Hi." Turkey whispers and Greece realizes that it is because the silence seems as sacred as the altar, and the Turk has enough respect to not want to disturb it. Turkey drops his hand on Greece's, and strokes the back of it gently.

"Why are you here?"

"Wanted to see ya. Did I disturb you?"

"No…. Does this place…make you uncomfortable?" Greece doesn't know if Turkey is a religious man. He thinks he is, but he hasn't seen him pray since his Ottoman days.

"Not really."

"…Do you believe in God?"

"…Used to. Not sure anymore." Greece nods at that and doesn't pursue it. "What were ya praying about?"

"World peace," Greece admits, and readies himself for Turkey's ridicule.

"That's a good thing to pray for." Turkey smiles. It makes Greece's heart thump, and he wonders why he has never seen this side of the Turk before.

"…Want…want to pray with me?"

Turkey hesitates. "I haven't since…yknow…Ottoman…" Greece accepts that too, and stands so they can leave. Turkey curls his fingers around Greece's wrist and gently pulls him down again. "I do though. Want to, I mean. How do Christians pray?"

"However you want." Greece cups his hands together and sets them down at the point where his knees touch the Turk's. He hears Turkey's intake of breath, before the other man follows his example.

"_Our Father who art in Heaven…_"

**/end**

_Note: I assumed the Ottoman Empire was Muslim because it was an Islamic empire and that Turkey is atheist because it is a secular country._


	10. 10: Mile High Lessons

**#10 Mile High Lessons**

_Summary: Turkey is being an annoying brat, so Greece teaches him about the Mile High Club. _

_Genre: Humor_

_Rating:__T_

_Warnings: Implied sexual situations, explicit language_

_Word Count: 864_

* * *

><p><span>(8 hours to Japan)<span>

He's bored out of his mind.

The flight from Turkey to Japan is an eleven hour ride, no stops in between, and he thinks that if he sits still for one more minute, he's gonna lose his fucking mind. The fact that Greece is currently sitting next to him, snoring away, isn't helping in the least.

"Oi! Wake up!"

"Wha—" Greece jolts awake, looking around with growing confusion. Then his eyes land on Turkey and the confusion morphs into irritation instead. Turkey suppresses the urge to giggle vindictively. "Why'd you wake me up? I was having a nice dream about being a cat…"

"Cause. I'm bored. Entertain me."

Greece huffs. "You're so selfish." Then he turns away from him and starts sleeping again.

Turkey throws his little pillow at the man and kicks his leg. When that fails, he jams the "call stewardess" button repeatedly, delighting in the loud ding that it makes every time.

"Cut it out." Greece stops trying to sleep and crosses his arms, glaring at Turkey instead. "What do you want me to do? Dance?"

"Sure."

"Screw you. I'm not your slave." Greece gets up, presumably to go use the washroom and get away from the annoying nation sitting next to him. He'd only agreed to this trip because Japan had very insistently invited them both to a party at his house, and Greece had been trapped in Turkey at the time on business. It had seemed logical that they take the same plane. Greece curses himself. He's never listening to his brain again; it makes terrible decisions.

When Greece reluctantly ambles back to his seat, he finds Turkey impatiently kicking the chair in front of him and tapping his fingers noisily on the window. The poor guy having his seat kicked looks like he wants to strangle somebody. Greece really hopes he does.

(7 hours to Japan)

"Goddamit I'm so fucking booorrredd!" Turkey sighs like a drama queen and flings himself against his chair, banging against it impatiently. He shreds one of the magazines the airline had provided, wads up a little piece of paper, pops it in his mouth, and spits it at Greece's sleeping face.

"Wha—" Greece jumps a little, startled out of a peaceful dream. For a second he thinks that they're being hijacked by terrorists, then another spitball hits him right in the eye, and he decides that this is even worse.

"Dammit, you bastard, stop it. What do you want from me?"

"I dunno, entertain me."

"How? Talk to you? Because we have such stimulating conversations?" Greece is surprised at how sarcastic he's being. Turkey always brings out the worst in him.

"How bout you give me a sexy little lapdance?" Turkey waggles his eyebrows suggestively. The man flirts like a whore, even with people he supposedly hates.

"Go screw yourself." Greece squeezes his eyes shut and tries to sleep.

(6 hours to Japan)

Greece is brought back to consciousness by a tingling pain in his scalp. He ignores it and starts drifting back to sleep. Then he feels it again: a sharp, quick pain like a needle prickling his head. He opens his eyes and scratches at the spot.

"Aw damn, only 8." Turkey looks disappointed that Greece is awake, which is strange enough to make Greece curious.

"What are you doing?"

Turkey holds up one hand, and there are several strands of hair in it. Brown hair. Curly, brown hair.

"Is that my hair?"

"Yup. I was testin' to see how many I could pull out 'fore you woke up. I got 8."

"…You bastard."

"You got a better idea for keepin' me entertained? If not, just go back to sleep and lemme try to break my record."

Desperate situations call for desperate measures. Greece remembers Turkey's lewd suggestions earlier, and has an idea. "Want to join the Mile High Club?"

"Whasat?"

Greece smirks evilly. "Come with me. I'll show you." This is going to fun.

(5 hours to Japan)

"Hey, Greece. Hey!"

"What."

"Let's go join that miley club again!"

"…"

(4 hours to Japan)

"Oi! Greece! Wake up!"

"What."

"I'm bored. Let's go do that highy thingy again!"

"…"

(3 hours to Japan)

"Ey! Greece!"

At this point, Greece thinks he's created a monster and is praying to whatever Gods exist to please, _please_ make Turkey's dick fall off from the air pressure or something, so he can finally get some rest. At this point, he's going to show up at Japan's party and limp like an old man, and wouldn't that be both ironic and sad.

Then Turkey's hand closes over his and strokes it with a gentleness that Greece would've appreciated an hour ago, when he'd nearly ended up with his head in the toilet. Greece looks at the other man, and sees the sparkle of excitement there, like a kid in a candy store. The smile brightens up Turkey's whole face, and suddenly he doesn't look so old and haggard as gruffly handsome and sort of charming.

So maybe it wouldn't hurt to renew his membership to the Mile High Club. Again. And again. They have 3 more hours to kill, after all.


	11. 11: Greek Tragedies

**#11 Greek Tragedies**

_Summary: "Why are all yer love stories so damn sad?" Turkey and Greece enjoy a rare, quiet afternoon together._

_Genre: Slice-of-life, a little H/C and fluff_

_Rating: T_

_Warnings: A bit of language, kissing_

_Word Count: 514_

* * *

><p>The sun sets on a hot Mediterranean afternoon, and the dying light limns Greece's curly brown hair like a golden laurel crown. He reclines against the sand, his eyes closed as in sleep, and sighs with gentle contentment.<p>

A man lies next to him, staring aimlessly into the sky, flecked with color as though through a kaleidoscope. Their arms lie limply beside them, and their fingers barely brush together. It's a calmness that isn't usually found when the two of them are together, and Turkey is grateful for the reprieve.

"Tell me a story," He says out of the blue, and listens as Greece's breath catches, belying his sleeping form. "Like…one of 'em Greek love stories."

So Greece tells him about Echo and Narcissus, about Aphrodite and Adonis, about Paris and Helen. He doesn't expect the Turk to listen; the man never has. But he knows that Turkey likes listening to his voice when they're like this, when the fighting has lulled and they can stop pretending they hate each other for the sake of their prides.

"Why are all yer love stories so damn sad?" Turkey interrupts him as he begins to tell him about Apollo and Daphne.

"They're not all—"

"Orpheus and Eurydice. Pyramus and Thisbe. Oedipus and his mom. Hephaestus and Aphrodite. Apollo and Hyacinth. Zeus and every damn man, woman and goat that he ever banged."

Greece is quiet for a long time, contemplating. Then he says, "How do you know all these Greek myths, anyway?"

Turkey doesn't reply, though Greece feels the man's fingers twitch against his own. Greece is tempted to turn his head and look at the Turk, if only to marvel at the blush he knows must be spreading across his face.

"I, er…That's beside the point. Don't change the subject."

Greece flips over on his stomach so that their sides are pressed together, and props up on his elbows to look down at the other man. Turkey is indeed blushing, and even his mask can't conceal the color—a slight flush against his dark skin that looks out of place, lying across small, crisscrossing scars that mar his otherwise handsome face.

"Maybe…maybe people are afraid of happy endings. Because happy endings give them hope. And having hope…means you have so much more to lose."

"Do you believe that?"

"…Give me a reason not to."

So Turkey threads his fingers through Greece's hair, pulls his curly head down and kisses him. It's soft and gentle and patient, and nothing at all like the fiery passion usually thrumming through them both. But it's a nice change, and nothing Turkey hopes he'll ever get used to.

When Turkey pulls away, Greece looks down at him through dazed eyes. He pulls off Turkey's mask, and the Turk doesn't fight him for once. "…Let me tell you…about Eros and Psyche." He runs his fingers down the side of Turkey's exposed face, and traces the ridges of old scars that he'll never admit to cherishing. "It's my favorite story."

" Why's tha'?"

Greece smiles fondly. "It has a happy ending."

**/end**


	12. 12: All the Things I Taught You

**#12 All the Things I Taught You**

_Summary: Turkey is sorry for all the things that he taught Greece about love and all the things he didn't._

_Genre: Hurt/comfort, a bit of angst_

_Rating:__T_

_Warnings: Implied sexual situations_

_Word Count: 864_

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm sorry, Japan."<em>

It was happening again.

Turkey watched them covertly from across the empty hallway. Greece and Japan were huddled in a far corner, speaking in whispers. Japan looked like he might want to cry, but he was a brave one if Turkey had ever known the meaning of the word, and he was nodding now, his hand held up to ease Greece's string of apologies. Greece had a weary look on his face, but the pain was muffled now. This had happened too many times to really cut him deep.

Turkey couldn't hear them, but he could read some of the words on their lips. It was nothing new, but he had hoped against hope that he wouldn't have to see the day.

Greece had a reputation as the most promiscuous nation in the EU, usurping even France and Spain for that position. But promiscuity didn't translate into success in relationships, and Greece had never been able to keep one lover for more than the span of a few months. No one understood why. He'd dated and slept his way through practically all of them, and just when things would take a turn for the serious, he'd become cold and withdrawn, backing away into himself and slipping through his lovers' fingers. His friends had all hoped that Japan would be different.

It wasn't. It wasn't, and Turkey felt foolish that any of them had actually hoped it would be. No one understood why, except Turkey. He knew and he understood and he so, so dearly wished he didn't.

Turkey never had parents. If he did, he certainly didn't remember them. He was okay with that, though. They were nations, and most of them had been raised on the backs of rebels and heroes, weaned on steel and gorged on blood and fire. That was their lot in life. The difference between him and most other nations, though, was that he had been burdened with the responsibility of raising another when he had no idea how to handle a child.

The Ottoman Empire hadn't had time to learn Parenting 101. He'd been off at wars, conquering, feasting, glorying—and the times when he had been home, in the palace, he'd drowned himself in alcohol* and concubines so that he wouldn't have to think how empty all his ambitions were. Greece had practically raised himself. In hindsight, he would've been better adjusted if he did raise himself. Because on those occasions when Turkey was drunk and tired and horny and lonely all at the same time, he remembered dragging Greece after him, hauling the child into the Sultan's Harem. What had he wanted then? He'd wanted to make a man of him, and to hurt and scar him, both.

Well, he'd hurt and scarred the child, alright. He remembered barking orders—_"put your hand on her thigh. There, no, higher, dammit! That's right, now move, forwards, and pull back, you punk…"_— and the satisfaction of knowing that the child would never forget them.

He'd taught Greece how to love a woman, or at least, how to love her body. He'd thought it was the only way he could contribute to helping Greece become a man. Then Greece was doing it without his instructions, sneaking into the Harem when the Sultan was out, fondling the girls and getting drunk off wine and flesh. He'd wooed and charmed and fallen in love, again and again and more. And for a time, Turkey had almost been proud of him.

Now he was sorry. He was sorry that he had taught Greece how to touch, how to rub and squeeze and caress. He was sorry that he'd taught him how to lie and tease and moan. But most of all, he was sorry that he had taught the child how to love, but not how to be loved in turn.

And that was why. Because none of those girls had ever loved him, had ever caressed and kissed him in return. They'd been faceless and nameless and voiceless, and now, now that Greece's lovers had faces and names and voices to love him with, Greece had no idea how to respond. His only escape was to pull back and hide inside himself, like the child he still was inside.

It was Turkey's fault, and it was Turkey's responsibility to fix it.

"Ey, Greece."

Greece turned towards him. Japan excused himself, smiling weakly. Turkey could feel his heart clench, and he didn't know who he pitied more.

"Go out with me sometime. For coffee. For old times' sake."

Greece looked surprised, but he knew the drill. When Turkey said _'for old times' sake_,' he always meant just sex. Just sex, and that—that he could handle. "Okay."

Greece didn't know that it was going to be different this time. He didn't know that Turkey was determined to finish the lessons he never got around to, all those centuries ago. He didn't know that Turkey would teach him, teach him the difference between a slave and a lover, and, in the process, maybe close some of those wounds in his own heart that had been festering for so, so long.

**/end **

_* A/N: I imagine the Ottoman Empire as Muslim, but not as a very devout Muslim. He might've drank alcohol in order to escape all the blood and death he saw on the battlefield. _

_MY RANT: does anyone think it's strange how well-adjusted Greece is, considering what a shitty and neglected childhood he must've had? I think he'd actually be pretty maladjusted, at least when it comes to social interaction and relationships. I can't imagine Sadiq would've actually "touched" him, but he could've still abused him by exposing him to sex and concubines in a misguided attempt to help him "grow up."_


	13. 13: Conquest

_A/N: Personally, I think it's weird that modern Greece and Ancient Greece are split into Heracles and his mom, while Sadiq represents both the Ottoman Empire and Turkey. So, in my headcanon, Sadiq loses a lot of his memories after the Ottoman Empire dies and Turkey is formed._

* * *

><p><strong>#13 Conquest<strong>

_Summary: Greece is free, and the War to End All Wars is over, so why is he still fighting and in pain? Sequel of sorts to "Independence," but can be stand-alone._

_Genre: Angst, historical_

_Rating:__T_

_Warnings: Implied sexual situations, angst (not exactly a happy ending, but a hopeful one)_

_Word Count: 689_

* * *

><p>"<em>Athens is the capital of the Kingdom. Constantinople is the great capital, the City, the dream and hope of all Greeks."<em>

* * *

><p>"You'll never take us! We will have death or victory!"<p>

Greece thinks that it is ironic, in a dark and twisted way, that the very words he had flung at the Ottoman Empire are now being hurled back at him by a man who carries the old Empire's face. But they are not the same man. At least, not exactly.

This new nation—nameless still and unrecognized, but so full of life and vigor and youthful invincibility—does not know him. He does not know what Greece looks like when he's asleep, does not know what Greece's skin feels like under his palms, the expanse of his back as he keens. This new nation has the Ottoman Empire's face, but none of his history. It makes Greece want to retch, because it isn't fair, because no matter how hard he tries, he will always carry the remembrance of the Ottoman Empire's skin against his. It isn't fair that the other man should be able to escape the weight of his memories.

"Constantinople belongs to us! Greece will have glory once again!"

Greece doesn't know who's shouting, and he doesn't know what they're fighting for anymore. The War to End All Wars is finally over. All he wants is to curl up into a ball and hide, and never, ever have to see his people suffer again. Now they are fighting once more, and this time, they have brought it upon themselves. Greece thinks that humanity must be crazy—masochistic, amnesic, foolish, or hopelessly insane. Heracles isn't so eloquent; Heracles just wants the pain to end.

So they fight. They fight, except this time, everything is reversed, because Greece has no pride in his heart, only foolish dreams of glory, and this new nation is bolstered by the same strength that Greece once had, but now can't ever remember having. They fight, and the Heavens must be laughing at them, because everything is a just a big cosmic joke at the expense of hundreds of thousands of lives, and this time, Greece knows in the deepest, sickest pits of his heart, that God is not on their side.

The war continues feverishly for 3 years, and Greece almost laughs. He almost laughs, and cries, and laughs again, and wonders whether his mother would be proud or ashamed that he is so desperately trying to revive her glory. He fights in her name, and when he is alone at night, he knows that she is weeping.

XXX-XXX-XXX-XXX

"_Amen."_

Greece crosses himself and stands. This time, he is not on a battlefield, but in a conference room. There isn't one drop of blood or grime, and somehow the sterility makes everything so much worse. It's over. It's really, really over.

They've lost.

They've lost and the Treaty of Lausanne has just been signed. _He_ has a name now.

The Republic of Turkey.

Turkey follows his diplomats as they leave, all the pride and love and triumph of a nation shining in his eyes. They are across the room from each other, and it might as well be a gulf of centuries. They find each other, for just one brief moment, and Greece realizes he is afraid, because Turkey has no history, and Turkey doesn't know him as anything but the ambitious conqueror who tried to stamp out his freedom. It isn't fair.

Then Turkey's eyes flicker with something like recognition, and something akin to hurt. Maybe, if Greece is wishful, he thinks he might have seen more there as well: betrayal, contempt, wistfulness, and love. Anything but forgiveness.

Then he turns—is gone—and Greece has lost, but it somehow doesn't feel completely like defeat.

Perhaps he shouldn't try to make Turkey remember. Perhaps he should follow the man's example, and try to forget, to build new memories that aren't stained with blood and bitterness. They are nations, after all, and they have all eternity. Heracles' heart still calls out to the Ottoman Empire, but Greece is ready to move forward.

And Heracles will too, in time, because the name 'Turkey' may be unfamiliar, but underneath the nation, he is still just _Sadiq_.

**/end**


End file.
